A painful year later…
"I can't stay here any longer," Isobel whispered, pressing her forehead against the icy glass of her apartment window.
Outside, New York's skyline loomed—gray and unforgiving. The towering buildings seemed to sneer at her, their sleek beauty a cruel contrast to the emptiness inside her. Every day felt like a punishment. Every night, a memory she couldn't outrun.
She closed her eyes and bit down on her trembling lip, willing herself not to cry again.
"You've been saying that for months," came Leah's voice from behind her—sharp, unwavering. "If you're serious, then pack your bags and go. Hiding here isn't helping you anymore."
Leah, her no-nonsense landlady with a heart buried beneath layers of tough love, was the only person who hadn't turned her back. The only one who refused to let Isobel disappear into her grief.
Isobel turned to face her, the whites of her eyes rimmed red, dark circles shadowing the hollows beneath. Her voice cracked. "And go where, Leah? Anywhere I go, the whispers will follow. The stares. The headlines. What's the point?"
Leah crossed the tiny living room with purpose, her heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor. She gripped
Isobel's shoulders, her eyes fierce with urgency. "The point is to save yourself. You can't keep sitting here, letting guilt chain you down. New York isn't your home anymore."
Her tone softened, just barely. "You need a fresh start. Somewhere no one knows your name. Somewhere you can breathe again."
Isobel stepped away, retreating toward the worn-out sofa where her suitcase lay half-zipped. Clothes were messily packed—Leah had done most of it herself, trying to push her toward something that felt like life.
"It's not that easy," Isobel said faintly, her arms folding across her chest like armor.
Just then, her phone rang.
The sound made her flinch.
Leah's eyes narrowed. "His stepmother again?"
Isobel didn't answer, but the flicker of dread on her face said everything.
For months, Alexander's family had waged war on her name. His stepmother, Victoria, and sister, Eloise, had turned her life into a circus—feeding lies to the press, fueling angry mobs online. Not a day passed without a new headline accusing her, dissecting her, labeling her a murderer.
She glanced at the phone. Her hands shook as she picked it up. The caller ID made her stomach twist.
The ringing stopped. A text pinged in its place.
"YOU NEED TO COME TO THE HOUSE. WHY AREN'T YOU PARTAKING IN THE INVESTIGATION? YOU MURDERER!"
All caps. All venom.
Isobel's knees buckled, and she dropped to the floor beside the suitcase. Her breath came in ragged gasps. It never ends. No one sees my pain. No one wants to.
Leah knelt beside her, brushing the hair from her face gently. "You're barely sleeping. You haven't stepped out in weeks. They're destroying you, Isobel. You're letting them win."
Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken grief. The hum of distant traffic drifted in through the window.
And then, softly, Isobel whispered, "Paris."
Leah blinked. "Paris?"
"Alexander and I…" Isobel's voice wavered. "We used to talk about going there. Before everything. It was supposed to be my birthday surprise."
Her shoulders trembled, and tears streamed down her face. She clutched her stomach reflexively—an old habit, one that still broke her apart from the inside.
"I think I have a friend there," Leah offered gently after a moment. "A landlady. Quiet neighborhood. She might take you in, no questions asked."
Isobel nodded slowly, barely able to speak. Her throat was too tight. Her heart too broken.
She hated the thought of running. But staying had become a slow death.
* * * * * * * *
PARIS
A week later…
The Parisian air was laced with the scent of fresh bread and rain-soaked cobblestones. It wrapped around her like a whisper, soft and unfamiliar.
Isobel—now Isabelle DeLacroix—stepped off the plane with her heart thundering in her chest. She clutched the handle of her single suitcase so tightly her knuckles blanched, and in her other hand, the new passport trembled slightly. A new name. A new beginning.
Her once dark hair now fell in soft burgundy waves around her face, and a pair of oversized glasses framed her delicate features. She barely recognized herself—and that was the point.
Leah had helped her find a modest studio apartment tucked into a narrow street in Montmartre. The stone building exuded old-world charm with ivy climbing the walls and a spiral staircase that creaked under every step. Her room was tiny but sun-drenched, with cracked wooden beams and a view that opened to the lively street below.
As she reached for the keys, her landlady, Madame Claire, eyed her curiously.
"Leah said you're an artist?" she asked, her voice a melodic blend of suspicion and warmth.
"Yes," Isabelle replied quietly, her accent uneven as she practiced the lilt she'd been rehearsing for weeks.
Madame Claire gave her a small, amused smile. "Your French needs work. But you'll do fine here."
That evening, Isabelle found herself sitting at a sidewalk café just around the corner, a scarf pulled loosely around her neck. Across from her was Marie, a sharp-eyed young gallery owner who had agreed to show her work. The connection had come through Madame Claire, and somehow, things had moved quickly.
"You've made quite the impression already," Marie said, her fingers elegantly curled around a glass of wine. "Your portfolio is raw, aching. It bleeds emotion. People will talk."
Isabelle forced a smile, unsure whether to feel flattered or exposed. "I wasn't sure anyone would understand it."
"Pain speaks a universal language," Marie said, her tone softer now. "But Paris isn't just a city for bleeding hearts, you know. It's for joy. For beauty."
A soft laugh escaped Isabelle's lips, so faint it startled her. "I'll try to remember that."
Marie leaned forward, her eyes alight. "Come out with us tomorrow. Dinner, wine, good people. You'll enjoy it. Promise."
Isabelle hesitated, instinctively retreating. But then she nodded. "I'd like that."
* * * * * * * *
The next evening, the restaurant in Montmartre buzzed with warmth and conversation. Candlelight flickered on the tables, casting golden shadows across exposed brick walls and wine-stained menus.
Isabelle sat among strangers who didn't know her past. They didn't whisper, didn't judge. For the first time in forever, she laughed without caution, smiled without fear of being recognized.
"So, Isabelle," Julien asked, his grin roguish as he swirled his wine. "What brings you to Paris?"
She paused, then said with practiced calm, "A fresh start."
"Ah," Colette chimed in from across the table, her earrings catching the light. "Paris is made for that. Are you a writer? Painter? Sculptor?"
"Artist," Isabelle replied, and her gaze flicked toward Marie, who gave a proud nod.
"She's being humble," Marie added. "Her work is exquisite. Dark and devastating. The kind that gets remembered."
Isabelle offered a bashful smile. The words warmed her, but she kept her heart guarded.
For a while, she let herself believe this was real—this moment of peace, this illusion of freedom. Just another soul rebuilding under the Parisian sky.
* * * * * * * *
Later that night, her footsteps echoed softly on the old staircase as she climbed back to her apartment. Her heels clicked against the tile, her scarf fluttering as she unlocked the door.
She stepped inside.
And froze.
There was something in the air.
A faint scent—woodsy, masculine… cologne.
Her pulse quickened.
Everything was in place. Nothing stolen. Nothing broken. But her instincts screamed.
She scanned the tiny space. The windows were latched. The door had been locked when she arrived.
Still… that smell.
Her eyes lingered on the corner of the room. Nothing moved. No shadow shifted.
Isabelle shut the door slowly behind her, her hand resting on the knob.
She let out a breath, shaky and uneven.
You're just tired. You drank too much. You're being paranoid.
She forced out a breath, brushing her damp palms against her jeans.
"Get a grip," she muttered under her breath, but her voice lacked conviction.
She tried to shake the feeling, chalking it up to nerves—or maybe the wine.
Still, it lingered.
It wasn't until hours later, when she stood in front of the mirror brushing her teeth, that she saw it.
A hairline crack, thin and jagged, had split across the corner of the mirror above the fireplace.
She blinked, stepping closer.
That hadn't been there before.
She was sure of it.
* * * * * * * *
Elsewhere…
In a dim hospital room that smelled of antiseptic and silence, a man's eyes fluttered open.
The sterile overhead lights cast long shadows on the tiled walls, and the low beep of machines echoed like a warning bell in his ears.
He tried to move, but pain exploded through his limbs, raw and blinding. A choked sound escaped his throat.
Within seconds, a nurse appeared at his side, her voice soft but firm. "Take it easy," she said, placing a steady hand
on his shoulder. "You've been through a lot."
He turned his head slowly, as though even gravity betrayed him.
His voice was a dry rasp. "Where… am I?"
"You're in a private facility," the nurse replied, her gaze not quite meeting his. "Safe."
Safe. The word felt foreign in his mouth.
His hand lifted, trembling, until his fingers brushed against his face—thick layers of gauze, bandages that covered him from cheek to jaw.
He stilled. "What happened to me?"
The nurse hesitated for a beat too long.
"There was an accident," she said gently. "A helicopter crash. We had to reconstruct what we could… Your family
insisted on the best care."
Family. That word felt foreign too.
He didn't respond, just stared at the blank ceiling above him.
And then—like an ember catching fire—his memories began to flicker.
A birthday. A scream. Her face. Her eyes filled with rage. The spinning sky.
And then—
Darkness.
Her name.
Isobel.
The name scorched his throat as it rose in a whisper. "Isobel…"
A tear slid down his cheek—not from pain, but something deeper. A slow-burning fury that curled in his gut like
smoke.
His voice dropped, low and full of venom. "I'll find her."
He clenched the sheets with what little strength he had left. "I'll make her pay."
The nurse didn't respond. But her expression—tight, unreadable—shifted just enough to reveal that she understood.
She knew exactly who he meant.